I'm relatively sure
That you don't know how it works.
And I'm absolutely certain
That you don't know how it hurts.
There's a little scar inside,
That twists up when I write,
And, as deeper digs the wound,
The pain begins to bite.
But tasting all the dreams,
And their shards of broken glass,
Leaves you wan, and wanting,
For a sweet, imagined past
That there's no way to recapture,
because it wasn't really there.
And you remember that you're lying,
And the wound begins to tear.